


Loved for Who I Am

by sheyrenawyrsabane



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Always a girl Syd, F/M, Model Syd AU, Rule 63, Syd is a model and Alex is a hockey player and they find their way into each other's lives, Writing this made me want to re-watch America's Next Top Model
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-29
Updated: 2017-11-29
Packaged: 2019-02-08 06:06:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12858375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheyrenawyrsabane/pseuds/sheyrenawyrsabane
Summary: There are a lot of things Sydney doesn't say.Sasha hears them all anyway.





	Loved for Who I Am

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Reflection from Mulan

“Like a doll,” the photographer says. He doesn’t look away from the camera. “I just need you to break--yes. There. Hold that.”

Sydney collapses in on herself, knees turning inward, shoulders hunching, arms bending. It feels awkward and she knows it comes across that way on camera. She does ‘busted up model’ quite well which probably says something about her.

She doesn't examine it too closely. 

She holds the pose for a few clicks of the camera then subtly shifts her position.

Same look but different angle.

A few clicks.

She shifts again.

By the time she’s done with this shoot she feels broken down. She rolls her head to stretch out her neck then slips her shoes off. She wants to dig her thumbs into the arch where her feet hurt the most but she should wait until she’s back in her hotel room.

It’s rude to show designers that their clothes aren’t as wonderful as they appear in glossy photographs.

She’s given a silver sequined jacket before she leaves.

She’s already negotiated payment; well, Brisson did. The jacket appears as if it’s a gift, but she knows it’s more than that. The designer wants her to wear it out so he can claim that Sydney Crosby chooses to wear his clothes in her down time. 

She’ll add it to the closet full of clothes she almost never wears. Each piece is labeled with when she got it and from who so if she does wear it then she can give credit where it’s due.

She waits to wrinkle her nose at the jacket until she’s at her hotel.

SIlver sequins?

_ Really _ ?

~*~*~*~

Ivan Petrovich is a middle-aged man who wears too much cologne and tries too hard to book Sydney for swimsuit shoots.

Sydney doesn’t have a typical model’s body. She’s more shapely than high fashion prefers but a little too  _ other  _ for commercial shoots. She falls somewhere in the middle of the two, and the designers who love her, love her. The ones who hate her make no secret of it.

She’s learned who to work with and who not to, and she appreciates the opportunities she’s given, but Petrovich isn’t her favorite designer.

He prefers to have her in pools or on the beach whereas Sydney lives for the runway and when she has to be static, she prefers something a bit more dynamic and interesting than swimsuits.

Still, work is work.

She’s trying to convince Petrovich that he should book her for an editorial while he tries to wheedle a ‘sporty swimsuit’ shoot out of her. Sporty means slutty.

“I’ll give you the front cover,” he offers.

“I--” Sydney’s well prepared argument falls by the wayside when she sees the picture hanging up on his wall. “Is that Alexander Ovechkin?”

Stupid question. It’s a framed picture of the hockey player in his brilliantly red Capitals uniform. The number eight on his jersey is as clear as the C. There’s a scrawled signature on the corner. 

“You’re a hockey fan?” Petrovich asks. “Of course you are. You’re Canadian. I forget this sometimes.” He joins her by the picture, pride puffing up his shoulders. “Sasha is a good friend.”

_ Sasha? _

“Ah!” Petrovich says, a man who has discovered something. “I have a box. Maybe you want to see a game.”

Sydney’s a consummate professional, known for her dedication and her focus. It’s embarrassing that she’s been distracted by a picture hanging on Petrovich’s wall.

“I couldn’t,” Sydney says. Gifts are never gifts. There’s always some kind of expectation attached to them.

“I insist,” Petrovich says. “They have a big home game next week against the Bruins. I was planning on going. I could dress you.”

And there it is. At least Petrovich is upfront with what he wants. And maybe, if she accepts the gift along with the favor, then there won’t be anything expected of her afterwards. They won’t owe each other.

“I’m allowed veto power,” Sydney says. Before Petrovich can protest, she adds. “It’s a hockey rink, Ivan. I won’t wear something that leaves me freezing for three hours.”

“Not at a hockey rink,” he agrees. “But on a beach? I have a great new line of swimsuits.”

~*~*~*~

Sydney travels a lot for her work. Sometimes it feels as if she’s always traveling, seeing more of airports and taxi cabs and hotels than the beautiful places she goes. She’s popular enough that her schedule is always packed full.

Taking a night to go to a hockey game seems indulgent.

Decadent even.

Brisson, her agent, doesn’t understand, but he doesn’t need to. 

Sydney has the time, and she wants to go.

Sure, the Capitals wouldn’t have been her first choice to see. She grew up a Canadiens fan, and she’ll always be partial to the other Canadian teams, because they remind her of home. But the Capitals are talented, and above anything, she appreciates skill.

It takes two hours, but she and Petrovich finally agree on an outfit.

She’s in navy blue overalls. They’re shorts and ride up shorter than she’d like given where they’re going, but she loves the rows of big buttons on the front of them. The shirt she wears underneath is plain and white and Petrovich tops the look off with a red jacket. 

It doesn’t escape her notice that he’s dressed her in Capitals colors.

The heels he puts her in aren’t particularly high but they have narrow points. She wobbles in them and has to hold his arm for balance.

That doesn’t escape her notice either.

At least there’s an elevator up to the box and then she can sit.

There are even people who offer to fetch her a drink or something to eat so she won’t have to walk much. 

Petrovich helps her stand for the anthem. She untangles their arms as soon as she’s sitting again.

“Chara gets bigger every year,” Petrovich laments.

Sydney makes a noise of agreement. He’s certainly tall and has neverending limbs that can seemingly wrap around anyone to steal a puck or cut off a passing lane. 

Ovechkin is a different kind of big. He’s a force on the ice, large and growing larger as his powerful strides pick up speed. He barrels over anyone in his way and when they try the same thing to him they bounce harmlessly off his frame.

Sydney’s dad doesn’t like him. Says he’s a showboat and self-centered and lazy.

He doesn’t play like the players Sydney grew up admiring play, but she appreciates his game all the same. 

There’s something to be said for him having “the Ovie spot” on the powerplay, a place he unerringly goes and can score from even with everyone on the ice trying to stop him. Every defender knows he’ll skate there, every goalie knows to square up, but he still scores. 

He does so only a few minutes into the first period.

Marchand takes a hooking penalty, and the crowd begins to rumble in anticipation. 

Sydney leans forward in her seat, drawn up in it as well. 

As soon as she catches herself, she sits up straighter. She might be here to watch a game, but she has to make sure the clothes look their best. 

Ovechkin scores, a snipe from his spot, and Sydney claps, because she doesn’t trust her heels enough to leap to her feet.

~*~*~*~

It’s a physical game and a bruising one as both teams battle for every puck and every second of possession. Holtby and Rask both play well, enduring the onslaught as Ovechkin and his crew assault the net on one end only for Bergeron and Marchand to counter with their own attack.

When the game’s over, a hard won 2-1 victory for Washington, Petrovich extends his arm.

“Would you like to meet the team?”

Sydney, shocked, can only stare for a moment. 

Petrovich smiles, proud to have caught her off guard. “I told you, Sasha and I are friends. You could come to every game you wanted this season.”

The bartender politely averts his gaze.

“I wouldn’t want to bother the team,” Sydney says.

“Nonsense! We’ll have to wait for them to change and shower and dispense with the media, but there are people we can talk to in the meantime.”

“Of course.”

She smiles and allows Petrovich to bring her to a room of well-dressed people who want to shake Sydney’s hand and tell Petrovich how good his clothes look on her. There are pictures, and she smiles in some and looks off into the distance in others. She drifts to the far side of the room where the lighting is better.

“Such a natural,” someone sighs.

Sydney doesn’t point out that she’s been modeling since she was fifteen. Practiced would be a better way to describe her. Or maybe experienced.

The clunky necklace Petrovich insisted she wear feels heavier by the minute. Her feet are aching from how much standing she’s been doing. Maybe she should politely decline Petrovich’s offer to meet the team. Home sounds nice right now.

Well, the hotel room she’s calling home at the moment.

She can soak her feet, rub the worst of the ache away then catch a full night’s sleep before she has to fly out to New York City for her next obligation. 

“Ah, busy night for our boys,” Petrovich says, finding Sydney again. “Sasha invited us for drinks. It’s for the best. A sweaty locker room is no place for you.”

Drinks. It means a longer night then she had planned. 

“Unfortunately, there’s no time to change,” Petrovich continues. He doesn’t look particularly unhappy. “You’ll have to lose the jacket. It’s too formal for drinks.”

“Of course,” Sydney agrees.

~*~*~*~

Petrovich takes her to a club with a bouncer who doesn’t even glance at Petrovich. He stares at Sydney’s legs then manages to drag his gaze up to her face before he waves her through. She lets Petrovich escort her inside then leans even more on him when the base thrums through her body and threatens to upset her already precarious balance.

People turn to stare as they pass through the club.

The gazes are appreciative as they linger on Sydney then confused when they flit to Petrovich. 

She dismisses them all from her care and allows Petrovich to lead her to a table of rowdy men. 

Petrovich presents her as if she’s some kind of prize, and Sydney feels her walls slam down. Her smile is forced, her politeness more muscle memory than genuine.

“A model?” one of the guys asks. “And you came to a hockey game?”

“My interests are varied,” she answers.

Someone else laughs. “Yeah, shoes and necklaces and perfumes and--”

“Hey!” a blonde man snaps. She thinks it might be Backstrom. It would be easier to know who they all were if they wore their numbers off the ice. He turns to Sydney. “I apologize for them.”

Petrovich abandons her to find Ovechkin who apparently isn’t at the table. Sydney leans against the table to take some of her weight off her shoes. 

“Sydney Crosby,” she tells him. “You played a good game tonight.”

“Nicklas Backstrom,” he answers. “And thank you. The Bruins always put up a good fight.”

“But not good enough! We fucking showed them.”

Sydney thinks that’s Tom Wilson. She should’ve kept her program from the game. She foolishly thought she’d only be meeting Ovechkin, and she’d definitely recognize him on sight. She wants to tap her fingers on the table, but she’s afraid it would come across as rude. 

“What brought you to Washington?” Backstrom asks. 

“I was negotiating with Ivan.” Sydney looks for where the man went but can’t find him. “He mentioned he had a box, and I wanted the opportunity to see a game. I don’t often have the time to see them live let alone in person. I travel a lot.”

Backstrom nods like he understands. Given what he does for a living, he probably does.

“My dad has season tickets to the Canadiens,” Sydney says. She’s not sure why she volunteers that. She tucks her hands into her overall pockets. It’s something she wouldn’t dare to do if they were anywhere else, but she doubts a table full of hockey players cares about the lines of her clothing.

It means her balance becomes even more precarious and she almost loses her footing entirely when Ovechkin’s booming, “Sydney Crosby!” catches her by surprise.

He greets her like he knows her then wraps an arm around her waist to keep her from falling. As soon as she’s steady, he lets go. His gaze drops to her shoes. 

He whistles, low and impressed.

“Aren’t they something?” Petrovich asks, stepping into Sydney’s line of vision. “They’re part of my new collection.”

Sydney obligingly lifts her foot to show off the heels.

Ovechkin’s eyes narrow like the points of her heels. “Seem unsteady.”

“They’re not  _ runway _ shoes,” Petrovich scoffs.

Sydney leans on the table again. She almost misses Ovechkin’s arm around her waist. In her heels, she’s just about as tall as him. He’s wider than her though. She’s not  _ small _ but out of her heels he could make her feel it.

She’s not sure if she likes that or not.

She holds a hand out. “I guess you already know, but I’m Sydney. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Ovechkin’s face lights up in a smile, showing off his missing teeth. “Ivan tells me you wanted to meet me.”

Sydney’s cheeks flush and she’s glad for the dim lighting. Hopefully no one notices. “I wanted to see a hockey game.”

“Wanted to see  _ me _ .”

She doesn’t deny it a second time. “That was a nice goal you scored in the first period.”

Ovechkin puffs up, proud. “Nice enough that you want to see more?”

Backstrom goans.

“I offered her a place in my box whenever she wants to come,” Petrovich interjects.

Ovechkin glances down at Sydney’s shoes. “Next game, you have to dress like a fan and not a model.”

“I do, do I?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll give you the best jersey.”

Despite herself, she’s charmed. “I can probably find time in my schedule for another game. Are you playing the Rangers in the next two weeks?”

“No but we play Islanders on the road.”

“I’ll look it up and see if I can go.”

“I can text you details.”

Sydney, aware of the entire team and Petrovich staring, smiles and ducks her head. “I can look it up, but thank you.”

“Let me give you a jersey at least,” Ovechkin says. When she nods, he pushes for more. “And tickets.”

“I can get them to you,” Petrovich volunteers.

“Thank you. No alterations.”

Petrovich pouts. “The jersey has no shape. With a little work--”

“No,” Sydney repeats, firm. 

Petrovich sighs. 

~*~*~*~

Sydney hangs suspended from a wire above a safety net that looks like it’s seen better days. There’s a harness digging into her hips, and she has to contort herself just so so that the flowing dress she’s in doesn’t obey the laws of gravity.

“Too much tension!” the photographer calls.

She softens herself, muscles relaxing while still holding tight. A mess of contradictions. 

After the shoot is over and Sydney’s back in her street clothes, she calls Flower.

“Bonjour,” Flower greets in flawless French.

Thanks to Flower and her patient lessons, Sydney’s French is good enough to survive Paris during Fashion Week. 

“Are you in the city?” Sydney asks.

“Which city?”

“New York.”

“I will be tomorrow. You want to meet up?”

Flower’s a fellow model, one of the few Sydney’s ever been able to room with. Back when there was more permanence in their lives, they were roommates. Now, they see each other when they can, in airports and at photoshoots and industry parties. 

“I have tickets to the Islanders-Capitals game.”

“I heard that you’re now a Capitals fan.” Suspicion colors Flower’s words. “Those heels Petrovich put you in were brutal.”

“Is that a yes?”

Flower huffs. “No appreciation for conversation. But yes, I’ll come with you. Tell the brute if he tries to put me in his jersey I’ll burn it.”

“Ovechkin was very polite.”

Flower huffs again and hangs up.

~*~*~*~

Flower wears a Holtby jersey to the game. “He’s Canadian,” she says with a pointed look at Sydney. “And he’s a goalie.”

Flower’s known for being extraordinarily bendy. She’s done some of the most jaw-dropping, physics defying photoshoots Sydney has ever seen. She’s also terrifyingly insightful.

Ovechkin gave her rinkside seats which seemed almost too much to accept.  _ Gifts come with expectations _ , she reminds herself as she and Flower sit.  _ And I doubt he’ll be satisfied seeing you in his clothes. _

On second thought, she glances at the 8 on her sleeve. Ovechkin’s name lays heavy against her back. Maybe it’s not so different from Petrovich than she originally thought.

Maybe she just wanted it to be different.

She flushes.

Ovechkin chooses that moment to pause by the glass. He taps it and grins at her, boyish and excited. Once she smiles back, he jumps back into warm-ups. His goal, not a minute later, leaves her breathless.

“Show-off,” Flower mutters. 

“It’s warm-ups,” Sydney defends. “He has to make sure he’s ready for the game.”

Flower raises perfectly sculpted eyebrows. “I get why he’s interested in you, but what in the world do you see in  _ him _ ?”

Sydney shrugs. “It’s not like that. I wanted to see a game, and Petrovich offered to take me. Then I met Ovechkin, and he offered me tickets to tonight’s game. I don’t even know him. I just like hockey.”

“You’re in deep fucking shit,” Flower tells her then whistles loudly when Holtby makes a save on Ovechkin.

~*~*~*~

This game is much more fun than the last one. Sydney can slouch in her seat and leap to her feet with the rest of the fans, and Flower knows enough about hockey for them to carry a conversation about the game through three periods and overtime.

TJ Oshie scores the game-winning goal and Flower drags Sydney towards the locker room.

“We shouldn’t,” Sydney says.

“You really want to use  _ Ivan Petrovich  _ to arrange your booty calls?” Flower asks. Thankfully, she asks in French so no one around them understands. 

“It’s not like that,” Sydney repeats.

“You used one of your precious nights off to watch him play,” Flower says. “ _ Twice _ . And you wore those fucking awful shoes. That means something.”

It doesn’t take long for word to spread to Ovechkin that Sydney’s outside the locker room. He comes out in his Under Armor, his face flushed from the game and his hair sticking up in every direction. His smile somehow grows when he sees Sydney.

She smiles back.

Flower steps between them. She’s taller than Sydney and especially so tonight in knee high boots with a sharp point on them. She stalks up to Ovechkin who looks surprised but stands his ground.

“Sydney is my very dear friend,” Flower says, “and if you hurt her, I will chop your dick off with a hockey skate, do you understand me?”

Sydney chokes, horrified. 

Ovechkin appears delighted with the threat. He looks past Flower to Sydney who’s contemplating if it’s too late to run away. “You like me?”

“What?” Sydney asks.

“What?” Flower echoes.

“You brought a friend to threaten me. It’s, uh,” he casts about for the words he wants, “shovel talk? Can we trade phone numbers now?”

“Sure,” Sydney says. Flower had a good point, she doesn’t want to use Petrovich as her go-between. And Ovechkin has been nice. She can always block his number if that changes. 

He unlocks his phone then hands it to her, contact screen pulled up. She types in her information then hits his home button. A picture of her appears as his home screen. It’s from a shoot she did in Japan.

Her eye make-up was done in stunning slashes of color, and her hair was piled on top of her head. She was put in a tank of water and told they wanted a shot from the bridge of her nose up. When she was shooting it was a challenge to float in the tank and keep water from going up her nose and she couldn’t see how it would all come together but she trusted that it would.

In the end, with the curls of blue smoke on the water and the dim lighting focused on her, she looked like a sea creature emerging from the ocean. 

It’s one of her favorite photos, but it’s not the one she’d expect to see on Ovechkin’s phone.

“I’ve done nude shoots,” she says, handing his phone back.

“If I see you like that I want it to be your choice,” he says. “Not because of a Google search.” He smiles at the shock on her face. “Thank you for coming to the game. I have to go. Media then we fly to Montreal.”

“Carey Price will own your ass,” Flower cheerfully tells him. 

Sydney stares until Ovechkin’s long gone. She doesn’t move again until her phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number.

_ Hello, Sydney Crosby _ .

~*~*~*~

Sydney remembers the Tokyo water shoot clearly. When the photographer got the shot he wanted, he looked up at her, awed, and called her haunting.

It’s one of the reasons she loves being a model.

Yes, it’s not always an easy industry, and after years of being in it she’s well aware of its flaws. But as a kid she was teased for her lips being too big and her ass taking up too much space on the bus and her nose was wrong and this and that.

In the fashion world, there are people who call her haunting and say it as a compliment.

She has her critics, it’s impossible not to, but she’s learned that she doesn’t need everyone to appreciate her. She needs the designer who thinks her bowlegs add a uniqueness to her walk. She needs the photographer who loves how her eyes catch the light and reflect a dozen different colors. 

She’s learned that she’s perfect for some people and that she doesn’t need to care about anyone else.

She can’t help but wonder what Ovechkin sees when he looks at her.

~*~*~*~

Sydney meets Ovechkin for lunch in LA. She’s just come off an editorial shoot in Venice where they put her in high fashion gowns and strange wigs and had her collapse over various pieces of furniture. 

If one more person tells her she looks perfect “broken” then she might scream.

She won’t though.

She’s too professional.

The Capitals play tomorrow, and Sydney will already be at her next destination by then, but they both had enough time today for a late lunch.

They eat outside on the patio with an umbrella up to guard against the fall sun. 

“It’s hard to believe it’s November,” Sydney says. “Or maybe it’s not. Traveling makes seasons and months virtually meaningless.”

Ovechkin nods. “Sun at home then hot here then snow in Boston. Everything is always different.”

“It’s nice.”

Always moving, always changing. She transforms from couture model to runway model to Spring/Summer model to Fall/Winter model, molding herself into whatever her current designer needs. She never stays long enough to grow tired of who she is. 

She tugs on the end of her braid. Her hair is a deep red right now. Ovechkin hasn’t said anything about it; whether he likes it or doesn’t like it. She wonders if he noticed. Sometimes guys aren’t very observant. 

“How was Italy?” he asks.

She sent him pictures, including the aftermath of her statue photoshoot. It took her hours to scrub the white paint off. Her photographer called her a dream to work with then followed it up by saying he’d never met someone so alive who could look so dead. 

She’s still not sure it was a compliment. 

“It was nice.” She covers a yawn with her hand. “I’m sorry. My body’s confused. It doesn’t know what time it’s supposed to be.”

“When do you have to fly out?”

“Tonight. Too much time to stay at the airport and not enough to do much else. Besides lunch, I mean.”

Ovechkin hands his credit card to a passing waitress. “Come back to the hotel with me. I have a very important afternoon nap to take. You can sleep too.”

Sydney opens her mouth, ready to refuse, when she actually thinks about his offer. She could use a nap, and while she could rent a hotel room for a couple hours, if he’s offering his…

It suggests things.

But so did giving him her number.

Does she want this?

She glances up at him. “To nap?” she asks.

“Maybe a little cuddling.” A smile tugs at his lips.

She feels an answering smile spread across her own face. “Okay.”

~*~*~*~

There’s a lot of cuddling.

It’s actually kind of nice.

~*~*~*~

Petrovich gets his swimsuit photoshoot.

Sydney has to wear a denim-- _ denim _ \--swimsuit with ruffles and lie on an outcropping of rocks. The beach looks gorgeous but since it’s the fall, it’s  _ cold _ . The water’s even colder when the waves crash against the rocks and salt water rains down on her.

“Arch your back,” the photographer says.

Arching her back means the sharp points of the rocks press into her shoulders. It also accentuates the curve of her ass. She has to twist her hips to keep this high fashion rather than pin-up. The rock might’ve cut her shoulder. 

After the next wave hits and her shoulder stings she amends it to the rock  _ definitely  _ cut her shoulder.

When she’s finally bundled up in towels and sat inside the heated make-up trailer, she calls Ovechkin. Her teeth chatter as the phone rings.

“Hello, Syd,” he greets.

Her teeth chatter. “I hate swimsuit shoots.”

“I’m sure you looked good.”

“I wouldn’t be done if I didn’t.” She wraps her towel tighter around herself. “I cut myself on the rocks. And it turns out the ocean is cold in November.”

“Lost to the Penguins,” Ovechkin tells her. “Zhenya is insufferable when he wins.”

“On the road? You play the Flyers then return home.”

“You looked up schedule?”

“I have a couple days off coming up. I was thinking I could come visit?”

“Yes,” Ovechkin answers. “My house is your house for as long as you like.”

Sydney stumbles through sorting out the details. Are people normally this giving? The modeling world is full of tight-knit friendships or calculated backstabbing with little in between. She and Flower share their homes all the time. Maybe Ovechkin is her friend.

She thinks of the arm he draped over her waist when they napped together back in LA. How she slept soundly then woke up with his cheek pressed against her shoulder. She eased out of bed, not wanting to wake him, but he blinked his eyes open and looked at her, unguarded emotion in his eyes.

She thinks he wants to be more than friends.

And, as she agrees to spend at least two days at his house, she thinks she might want that too.

~*~*~*~

She does a lingerie shoot before flying to Washington.

The male model she works with has to have his dick taped down so an errant erection won’t ruin the shoot. 

Sydney thinks this is probably part of the reason she doesn’t understand how dating works.

~*~*~*~

Alex is at practice so she takes a taxi to his house. She lets herself in with the spare key he told her how to find.

Are all people as trusting as Alex?

She leaves her bag by the couch in the living room. Putting it in a guest room seems like it would send the wrong message. Putting it in the master bedroom seems presumptuous. She’s in a comfortable pair of dark wash jeans and a burgundy tank top. She wonders if she should change into something flashier. 

She wonders if she should’ve dyed her hair.

It’s blond right now, golden rather than platinum though she has done the latter before. Blond isn’t her favorite. 

Will Alex like it? 

She curls up on his couch and pulls the blanket down over her. She napped on the plane, but she could use a few more hours. 

The sound of the front door opening wakes her.

She sits up, rubbing her eyes. There’s a crease on her cheek from the pillow, and her hair isn’t neatly braided anymore. Years of modeling has a dozen fixes ready. 

Alex spots her before she can even tug the hair tie out of her braid. 

“You’re here,” he says, smiling brightly.

He’s always smiling.

She likes it.

“Hi,” she says. She steps into his hug.

Her cheek, warm from sleeping, meet his, chilled from the outside. She turns to press a kiss against his cheek. 

“How was practice?” she asks.

He touches his cheek then touches her lips. 

She nods.

He kisses her, deep and thorough as if he’s been thinking about this for a long time. As if he’s afraid it’s the only time he’ll be able to. She kisses back, clumsy, but he doesn’t seem to care. He lifts her off the ground and she wraps her legs around his waist. 

She breaks the kiss to murmur a soft, “Wow,” because she knows he’s strong but still.

His smile is back, crooked and just for her. 

Feelings bubble up in her chest and she kisses him again, because it’s the easiest way to show him everything she’s feeling. 

He carries her up the stairs. It’s unsafe but also incredibly hot. She clings when he tries to drop her on his bed, pulling him down with her. They fall together and it knocks the breath out of her lungs. 

She stretches out beneath him, loving the way he covers her, how he anchors her down in this one place. Sometimes, when she closes her eyes, she forgets where she is. Any bed could be a number of hotel beds. Any chair could be one of a thousand chairs she’s sat in in in her life. She could be in Milan or Paris or Barcelona. She could be on a boat or a plane.

But right now she’s  _ here. _ She’s in Alexander Ovechkin’s bed with the man himself holding her there. 

She runs her hands through his hair. It’s going grey, but she likes it. It makes him look distinguished. She likes how it’s at odds with the boyish grin he so often wears.

A mess of contradictions.

Him and her both.

She spreads her legs so he falls between them. His cock nudges the seam of her jeans, and she tilts her head back and rolls her hips down, and she’s not sure which one of them groans first. 

Alex stops kissing her to press his mouth against her neck. He breathes deeply and it tickles. She squirms, rubbing up against him again. It makes him gasp which tickles and it turns into a maddening cycle.

She finally grabs a fistful of his hair to pull his head back.

“You’re driving me out of my skin,” she tells him. 

“You did it to me first,” he says. 

She laughs, sharp and surprised. She’s not sure she’s ever had  _ fun _ during a hook-up except for the few times she and Flower had too much champagne when they were too young to be drinking it. Sex has always been for a purpose, but Alex’s is smiling at her. He’s shifted so his erection isn’t so obvious.

It’s...sweet. 

She wouldn’t have expected it from over 200 pounds of hockey player.

But there’s more to Alex than hockey, same as there’s more to her than modeling. 

He brushes the wisps of her hair out of her face. “Is this okay?” 

The touching? The kissing? 

She nods. The answer is yes to both. When it comes to Alex, the answer is yes a frightening amount of the time. 

~*~*~*~

She sleeps in the next morning.

It’s a decadent feeling, especially when she comes downstairs to see that Alex has already made coffee.

“Do you have practice today?” she asks.

He hands her a cup of coffee. “Late morning. Team lunch after. Do you want to come?”

“Is that something people go to?”

She rolls the sleeves of his shirt up and watches at he realizes she’s wearing his clothes. It’s a long sleeve Caps shirt she found in one of his drawers. She feels as if she’s always wearing someone else’s clothes. This is just more comfortable than what she usually puls on. 

She takes a sip of her coffee. It’s black and bitter and she makes a face but takes another sip.

“Do you want sugar?” he asks. “Cream?”

She shakes her head. “If it doesn’t taste good then I don’t drink too much.”

He stares at her for a moment before he nods, accepting her decision even though he probably doesn’t understand it. “Team lunch is not just team. And isn’t always full team.”

“As long as I’m not intruding.”

Alex reels her in for a kiss. “Never,” he promises. 

~*~*~*~

She wears gunmetal grey jeans with boots, a tank top, and a fashionable jacket to meet the team for lunch. Alex is wearing a t-shirt with Nicolas Cage’s face on it. Some of her horror must show, because Oshie and Burakovsky burst into laughter. 

“I’m very good at fashion,” Alex says. “Everyone here is jealous.”

“Sure,” Sydney says. She lets him take her jacket and hang it on one of the little hooks at the end of their booth. 

“Are you okay?” Backstrom asks.

When Sydney rotates her shoulders she can feel the pull of the band-aid over her cut. “I’m fine. There were some rocks.”

“Some rocks,” Backstrom repeats.

“Not all beaches are full of sand.” Sydney slides into the booth, Alex on one side of her, Backstrom on the other. “Not that lying in the sand is much better.”

“You did a swimsuit shoot?” Wilson asks.

She now has the attention of the entire table. Except, oddly, Alex. Or maybe it’s not so strange. He’s already heard about it from her.

“They’re not very glamorous,” Sydney answers. “But yes.”

“In late fall?” Oshie asks.

“Better than winter. When I leave I’m doing diamonds and snakes.”

“Snakes?” Burakovsky asks.

“Diamonds?” Kuznetsov asks. “Like James Bond?”

“Not quite like Halle Berry. Less clothes. More snakes.”

“Will Pierce Brosnan be there?”

Sydney laughs. “Probably not. I’ll get you an autograph if he is, though.”

~*~*~*~

Alex skips an optional practice so they have a whole day together before she has to fly out. 

Being with him is one indulgence after another.

She’s glad she leaves before she grows too used to it.

~*~*~*~

She poses nude with nothing to cover her but a couple snakes and some diamonds.

Her hair is a rich chocolate brown now. Someone weaves red and gold through it to match the snakes. 

It’s not the worst shoot she’s done.

~*~*~*~

She flies to Moscow for a runway show. 

Runway is her favorite part of being a model. She doesn’t glide so much as stalk down the runway. There’s something addicting about the rush of adrenaline as she takes the first step then the surge of confidence as she feels every gaze in the room swing to her. 

It’s Moscow so there’s a lot of fur, both fake and not. The jacket she’s wearing falls to her knees. It parts with every step she takes, showing the shimmery jumpsuit she wears beneath it. 

She stomps down the runway, power in every stride she takes. The collar of her jacket is popped, and the jacket itself has been cinched and sewn to show off the curves of her body. It’s a power outfit and she reflects that in her walk.

They change her into a smart business suit. The lapels are fur. The pants strain against her ass. She has to tailor her walk so they don’t rip up the seam. That happened to her once. It stopped making headlines when a model slipped on a water runway and fell into the pool. 

After the business suit it’s time for a gown. The fur comes up to her chin. It’s itchy and it only grows worse under the sharp lights of the runway. Her entire back is exposed, but her throat is covered. Sometimes, she doesn't understand fashion. 

But she doesn't need to.

All she has to do it wear it.

Own it.

Her boots click with every step she takes.

~*~*~*~

When she was younger, she played hockey.

She was even pretty good at it.

Her dad petitioned for her to play with the local boys’ teams. They won that petition, and Sydney played and exceled until it was too much for her to play with the boys and play up an age group.

It became obvious pretty quickly that she was a novelty but that it would wear off. There was no future for her in hockey. She found a future in modeling even though that came with a countdown.

Ever since her first photoshoot the clock to the end of her career began ticking.

Sometimes, the ticking is louder than others, an insistent reminder to push to be the best because she only has a limited time to stay there once she reaches it.

Whenever she calls Alex, the ticking quiets. 

~*~*~*~

“How’s Japan?” Alex asks.

“Greece now,” she answers. She stares out her window at the gorgeous water. 

There’s an ache in her chest that feels like homesickness. It’s strange because she can’t remember that last time she had a home to miss.

“How’s New Jersey?”

“Tampa now,” he answers.

Has that much time really passed? She checks her schedule. It has.

She doesn’t apologize. If she starts then she’ll never stop.

And how can she apologize for her job?

She can’t. Neither can he.

“I can stop in DC on my way to New York,” she says. “It won’t be for long but--”  _ I want to see you _ .

“Yes,” he says.

~*~*~*~

She dozes in the taxi to his house. When he opens his door, he’s in sweatpants and t-shirt with a ketchup stain on it. There are bags under his eyes and a cut on his cheek. Her make-up is smudged from a nap on the plane then again in the taxi. Her hair, so black it’s almost blue, is falling out of its braid.

She kisses him, because that’s something they can’t do over the phone.

He kisses back until a sharp gust of wind reminds her that they’re kissing in his doorway in the middle of December. 

~*~*~*~

They go somewhere nice for dinner.

There are pictures.

Sydney looks them over with a critical eye. She hadn’t know there was a camera, but she’s turned to the light anyway. Instinct. 

There’s a picture of them holding hands while looking at their menus.

There’s another of them smiling at each other, something soft and almost foreign in Sydney’s expression.

There’s another of them kissing. 

Sydney’s melted against him, body relaxed and natural.

James Efferton waves the picture at her as he tries to get her to pose a certain way in front of a fake waterfall. “I know you can look like a human,” he says. “Do I need to kiss you to make you unclench?”

Sydney tilts her head back. She takes a deep breath and when she releases it, she releases all the tension she’s holding.

“Fucking finally,” Efferton says.

The photographer makes a protesting sound. He tries to apologize later, but Sydney shrugs it off. She doesn’t mind when people yell. It reminds her of hockey.

~*~*~*~

Flower also has a copy of the picture.

She ambushes Sydney with it when she crashes Sydney’s hotel room.

It’s not the only picture Flower brings with her.

She has a whole collection. Alex kissing a rail thin blond over dinner. Alex kissing a more voluptuous blond in a darkened nightclub. Alex with another woman and another and another. They’re all beautiful. Most of them are blond.

Flower’s one of the few people who’s always protected her. It’s what she’s trying to do now.

“The man has a type,” Flower says.

“I’m not blond right now.”

She was the first time they kissed but not the first time they met. 

She could be blond again if he wanted. She’s molded herself into what so many people want, what’s one more person to model for?

“There are a lot of women.”

“There are.” 

She flips through the pictures again. There’s Alex’s hand high up on a woman’s thigh. There, he’s pressing kisses along her neck the way Sydney especially likes. There...she looks at picture after picture. 

When she’s done, she pushes the pictures back to Flower. 

“He’s been with a lot of women,” Sydney says.

“I know.”

“How many of them are models?”

“Enough.”

“How many of them aren’t? They’re all beautiful. You can’t tell me that they’d be easier than me.”

Flower chokes.

Sydney smacks her thigh. “Not like that. I mean, it’s a lot of work to only see each other a handful of times. Why bother if he didn’t like me?”

Flower sighs. “I try to give you a friendly heads up and you decide the man is in love with you.”

“Thank you,” Sydney says.

~*~*~*~

Sydney and Flower do a shoot together. 

Their hair is braided together, and they’re back-to-back, stepping away from each other. After the first few frames, Sydney links her fingers with Flower’s.

The photographer exclaims in French and the shutter of the camera speeds up.

~*~*~*~

Sydney flies to DC.

Alex and his team are in Nashville so she lets herself into his house.

She takes a picture of herself in his bed and sends it to him so he knows she’s here.

Then she falls asleep.

She wakes up to a NHL notification telling her that Alex Ovechkin scored a natural hat trick in the first period to propel his team to victory. 

She also has a text from Alex.

_ Stay until I come home? _

_ Yes _ , she answers.

~*~*~*~

It’s her turn to greet him at the door.

He’s in a full suit, because he came straight from the plane.

“I have a few tailors I can introduce you to,” she tells him. Then she hauls him inside and kisses him.

He kisses back, a desperate edge to their kiss and the way their hands grab at each other. It’s been too long since they’ve seen each other, since they’ve even really talked. It’s always a couple minutes between flights or games or bookings and disjointed text conversations.

Now that she has Alex, she doesn’t want to let him go.

She’s careful with his jacket as she eases it off, because it’s been ingrained in her to be careful with clothes. She unbuttons his shirt as he bites at her lips then pops the button on her jeans. She shimmies out of her pants and pushes his shirt off his arms. Her hands find more fabric--an  _ undershirt _ \--and she growls into their kiss. 

He steps back to pull his shirt over his head. His lips are puffy from their kissing. She pushes him up against the wall and undoes his belt. 

“We’re still in the hallway,” he says. 

She sinks to her knees.

“Hallway is good,” he says. 

“This needs to be quick,” she says. “Hardwood isn’t good for my knees.”

Alex groans and knocks his head against the wall. “I don’t think that will be a problem.”

She grins and drops his belt to the floor.

~*~*~*~

She meets Evgeni Malkin after a Capitals win at home. 

He’s one of Alex’s best friends when they’re not enemies or rivals. It’s a complicated friendship, Alex explained to her. 

Sydney doesn’t have complicated friendships.

She has Flower.

Sometimes she wonders if that list should be longer.

Malkin is tall, all of it leg, and she can’t help but think of three designers who would love to dress him. He meets them at a bar in distressed denim and a shirt covered in cupcakes. Alex is wearing a denim jacket.

Sydney’s outfit is denim free. 

“Sydney Crosby,” she introduces.

“I know.”

She laughs, choosing to be charmed by his rudeness. Alex tells them to play nice and goes up to the bar for drinks.

“Alex says you’ve been friends for a long time,” she says.

Malkin tilts his head to the side when she says Alex’s name. His expression shutters as if she’s failed some kind of test. 

“Off and on,” Malkin says. 

They sit in silence until Alex returns.

~*~*~*~

Sydney’s hair is purple, because Levi wanted to do something young and fun. 

It’s brown again when she flies to DC for the Capitals holiday party. They have their Rock the Red theme so she arranges with a designer for a stunning gown for the event.

It’s a deep red with full sleeves and no back at all. A thin silver chain connects the shoulders straps, but it’s decorative more than functional. The entire thing is covered in shimmering crystals, drawing the light of wherever she is and reflecting it back. 

It’s a show-stopper.

If she wears it with enough confidence then people might even notice her next to Alex.

Her entire outfit from the dress to her shoes to her hair is planned. She applies a minimal amount of make-up and piles her hair on top of her head so it isn’t a distraction. The dress is what’s important. 

She and Alex takes a few pictures on the red carpet leading into the venue. She curls her arm through his and smiles. She molds herself against his side to show how happy she is to be here. She shifts to show off the dress better.

Once they’re inside, she shifts again. Her arm stays linked with Alex’s, but her grip is looser. She’s given the pictures the designer wanted. Now she’s Alex’s accessory.

The first people they talk to are wealthy donors. Their eyes slide over Sydney as they chat with Alex. Sydney keeps her smile but doesn’t speak.

The next set of donors coo over her. She’s A Model to them. She laughs at their jokes and leans into Alex’s side as if her heels are too tall or she’s had too much to drink. Alex wraps his arm around her waist to hold her close or maybe hold her up. She’s not sure. 

They extricate themselves from the conversation and Alex leads her over to where his coach and his family are.

“Sydney, this is Trotz.”

Sydney extends her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

He’s a balding man with a friendly smile. He looks her over as he shakes her hand as if he’s putting a face to the person who’s distracting his top player. “You can call me Barry.”

She’s introduced to Kim next then Nolan.

“You’re a model,” Nolan says. “You’re very pretty.”

“Thank you. Do you like spiders?”

“Are they big spiders?”

Her smile turns genuine as he pulls her phone out of her designer clutch. It’s easy to pull up pictures from the tarantula shoot she did. There are chocolate diamonds around her eyes to mimic the number of eyes the spiders have. 

There’s a spider on her shoulder, another on her neck. There are two in her hair.

“Woah,” Nolan says. 

They’re found by the Capitals’s president next, and Sydney shifts into someone different yet again. Alex’s hand finds its way to the small of her back, his hand warm and large where it rests against her bare skin.

“Alex, this must be the charming woman we’ve seen so many pictures of,” Ted says.

His wife, Lynn, stands next to him, regal in her gown. It’s strapless and red, of course, fabric spilling to the floor where ruffles and pick-ups give it shape. She has a cord of diamonds around her neck.

Sydney dips her head in acknowledgement of a beautiful outfit. 

Lynn smiles.

“This is Sydney,” Alex introduces. He keeps his hand against Sydney’s back as she shakes Ted’s hand. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Is that Canada I hear in your voice? How did you find us in DC?”

“Alex and I have a mutual acquaintance. He brought me to a game and,” Sydney shrugs her shoulders and light glints off her dress, “Now we’re here.”

“Young love,” Ted sighs.

Sydney leans into Alex, solid and strong. She smiles up at him, her heels tonight chosen so he’d still have a couple inches on her. 

“I don’t have any complaints,” she says. 

Ted laughs, loud and booming, and ushers them towards the bar and Alex’s teammates.

“Trial by fire?” Oshie asks when they join him. He offers them a beer.

Lauren, his wife, offers Sydney champagne.

She accepts the champagne and takes a small sip. 

“Now it’s time to have fun,” Sydney says. She brushes her lips over Alex’s cheek, careful not to leave any of her lipstick behind. 

~*~*~*~

When the car the Capitals hired to drive them home drops them off, Sydney’s head is spinning with too much champagne on too empty a stomach. She met dozens of people tonight; donors and season ticket holders and teammates and family. Facts and tidbits spin along with the champagne.

Hopefully in the morning, she’ll remember what facts go with which face.

“Did you have fun tonight?” Sydney asks.

“It’s always good to spend time with the team.”

“And now that we’re not with the team?” She pauses on the stairs, aware of how the dress clings and drapes, showing off the curve of her ass. She smiles as he stares. “Do you still want to have fun?”

She pulls her dress up so she won’t trip then runs up the stairs, nimble in her heels. She makes it to the bedroom before he catches her, gathering her up in his arms and kissing her. His hands are hot against her back. She wants to feel him against all of her.

She breaks the kiss and turns around. “Unhook the chain?”

He’s careful with her dress as he helps her take it off. She steps out of it and hangs it up in his closet. It leaves her only in her underwear and her heels. 

“You have a lot more clothes than I do,” she says.

She laughs as he shucks his jacket then his red bowtie. She’s out of her heels as he undoes the first button his shirt. His fingers fumble with the second as she peels off her underwear. 

She grins then disappears into his bathroom. Her toiletry bag rests next to one of the double sinks. She removes her make-up until it’s finally her in the mirror. Stripped of other people’s clothes and other people’s products. 

She’s Sydney again.

Alex is waiting for her in his bedroom. He’s naked now too. 

They crash into each other at the foot of his bed. She drags him down onto the mattress. The gentleness is gone now that she doesn’t have to worry about ruining her dress. She likes that Alex doesn’t treat her as if she’s fragile. 

He bites at her bottom lip and she drags trimmed fingernails down his back. 

~*~*~*~

The holiday season is a whirlwind of parties. She barely has time to work between this appearance and that except that every time she steps outside her hotel room or Alex’s bedroom she’s working.

She compliments designers and poses in outfits and arranges to work with people who have interesting concepts or offer her enough money.

“I worry about you,” Brisson tells her as they review her updated schedule.

“I like to be busy. I know my own limits.”

“You won’t be back in DC for a while.”

She knows there’s a question tied up in his words. “I won’t give up working.”

She does and doesn’t answer the question.

Brisson lets her be.

~*~*~*~

She flies to England. They find a rocky shore for her to stand on in a stunning dress that ripples when the wind blows. With the waves crashing into the rocks behind her, spraying droplets of saltwater like tiny diamonds, she raises a hand towards the horizon.

When she looks at the photographs later, it looks as if she’s reaching for something.

She’s not sure what that something is.

~*~*~*~

Pictures come out of Alex kissing a blond bombshell in a nightclub.

Sydney’s seen them before. They were part of the collection Flower showed her months ago. Apparently, with Sydney working so much, the press has grown bored.

She stops in Denver on the way to LA, because the Capitals are playing the Avalanche.

Alex looks like shit when he opens the hotel room door for her.

“It’s not what it looks like,” he says.

“I know.” She shuts the door behind her. “The picture is from 2014.”

“Yes,” he says. His worry shifts from one thing to something new. “Why do you know that?”

“Flower showed me a montage of your past girlfriends. She was trying to warn me. Or maybe warn me off.”

“You’re still here.”

“I’m a lot of work to date. All of the other women you’ve been with, they can’t all be difficult.”

“They weren’t.”

“You’re willing to put in a lot of effort for me,” Sydney says. “I figured it means you love me.”

Alex stares at her, mouth open as if she’s just bodychecked him. He recovers enough to say, “I’m a lot of work to date too.”

“Yes,” Sydney says.

It is and isn’t an answer.

~*~*~*~

She flies to London for a Shakespeare-inspired photoshoot.

There’s a debate whether they should shoot here or move everything to Verona.

They eventually decide to stay in London. 

Sydney meets her partner for the shoot, Jacques LeGuinn. He has long lashes and soft curling hair. 

“He’s the Romeo to your Juliet,” Ardyn, her photographer tells her with a smile.

She’s worked with Ardyn before. LeGuinn is new, but he doesn’t stare too much, and he doesn’t bother her as she takes a quick catnap before hair and make-up.

Her dress is moss green with gorgeous embroidery up the back. Her hair is pulled back from her face but isn’t styled as much as she’d expect. Kenji Kenichi, the designer she’s wearing today, prefers elaborate make-up to elaborate hair. 

Today, the make-up is tame as well.

“You look beautiful,” he tells her. He kisses the air above her cheeks, careful not to disturb the look. 

He ushers her over to the set. It’s a bedroom straight out of a period drama; spacious with elaborate paneling on the walls and gilded chairs. The bed is draped with sheer curtains. There’s a writing desk that Sydney sits at.

Her skirts are arranged until they fall just so.

The lights are adjusted.

Ardyn lifts his camera. “Now, I just need you to--”

He doesn’t finish before Sydney slumps, falling over the desk like a marionnette with its strings cut.

“Perfect,” Ardyn says. 

She’s Juliet after having drank the potion. She plays at being dead, sometimes with her eyes open sometimes with them closed. She twists and contorts her body under both Ardyn and Kenichi’s approval. 

LeGuinn is captured in the reflection of her water pitcher. He looks like a ghost that hasn’t quite materialized. Romeo is coming, but he’ll be too late.

Sydney plays busted up Juliet again as LeGuinn’s ushered into the room to sprawl dramatically across the bed. He has an empty vial of poison in one hand. His other hand reaches towards Sydney. 

Her back aches by the time they’re done for the day.

“We’ll do the other two sets tomorrow,” Ardyn says. 

“We have a party tonight,” Kenichi says. He offers his arm to Sydney. “Would you wear one of my dresses?”

“Of course.”

~*~*~*~

She wears a dark dress patterned with tiny fish. The sleeves are black satin. She keeps her phone in her clutch so she isn’t tempted to spend the night texting Alex.

~*~*~*~

The next day, the make-up artists hide the dark circles under her eyes.

She’s put in the same green dress. LeGuinn sprawls across the bed again.

“You’re distraught,” Kenichi tells her as she climbs onto the bed. “Your lover is dead.”

She closes her hand around the empty vial of poison. She holds the fake dagger to her chest. She slumps over LeGuinn’s body. She turns desperate eyes on the camera. She fills her limbs with tension, allows the camera to see the indecision on her face.

With ten frames left, she takes a chance.

She worked with Ardyn and Kenichi for the sea creature photoshoot.

Haunting, he called her.

She sits up straighter. Ardyn pauses but he doesn’t say anything as she shifts into a new position. She trails her fingers down LeGuin’s neck until they find his pulse.

A small smile is reflected in her eyes. 

“Brilliant,” Kenichi sighs, longing and admiration tangled up in the the one word. 

~*~*~*~

There’s another party.

Kenichi stays at her side and introduces her to people as, “My muse”. It’s better than Kid.

~*~*~*~

She started modeling young.

“The ass of a woman and face of a girl,” people said. 

She was popular in a subset of the fashion world.

It took her a few years to break into a niche she enjoys more.

~*~*~*~

She returns Stateside for the NHL All-Star Weekend.

It helps that it’s in LA.

She works a job then attends the 100 Players Celebration. 

Alex is one of the Top 100 players.

So is Malkin. 

“You’re on the same team,” Sydney says at the bar. “Will Gretzky put you on the same line?”

“You want to give Gretzky coaching advice?” Alex asks. “I can probably introduce you.”

“I’ll stick to spectating. Congrats on being named to the Top 100.”

Alex grins. “I am pretty awesome.”

She kisses him in the middle of a bar in Los Angeles, California and doesn’t care who sees. He is awesome and for a few scattered hours, he’s hers. 

~*~*~*~

She misses the Skills Competition but watches the games.

Alex and Malkin play together. They run up the score for the Metro division.

When he’s asked about it after the game, he grins and thanks Sydney for the advice. 

She offers him her congratulations before she has to leave again.

~*~*~*~

She goes on a tour of Europe. She sees dozens of hotel rooms that all look the same, wears complicated outfits, and walks down runways with their own unique twists. 

She lands in Moscow with a day to catch her breath and Tatiana Ovechkina picks her up from the airport.

She has a sign.

Sydney stops and stares when she sees it.

It means she’s still long enough for Tatiana to pull her into a hug. 

“Sasha has told me so much about you,” she says. “I’m glad to meet you.”

~*~*~*~

Tatiana sets Sydney up in Alex’s bedroom.

There are pictures of him up on the walls. His pillow still smells like him. His closet is full of hideous clothing. Her chest aches so much she pulls her shirt down to make sure she isn’t bruised.

She takes a selfie, stretched out across his bed. She sends it to him.  _ It’s almost like being with you. _

He Facetimes her. “Mama find you okay?”

“She had a sign.”

Alex laughs, happy and proud, and his love shines through the phone. 

“She keeps trying to feed me like a hockey player,” Sydney says.

His smile grows. “No, she feeds you like family.”

The ache worsens. Tears gather in Sydney’s eyes. She must be more tired than she thought.

“Alex,” she says and the name isn’t enough to carry all the feeling she tries to fill it with. 

“Sasha,” he corrects. 

She ducks her head so her hair, light brown now, hides her face. 

“Sasha,” she echoes. 

~*~*~*~

She loses track of time after Moscow.

There are photoshoots and ad campaigns and runways and planes and more hotel rooms than she can count. 

By the time she lands in DC, it takes all the energy she has left to flag down a taxi. 

The driver has to wake her up when they arrive at Sasha’s house.

“Thank you,” she tells him. She pays then takes her two bags up the steps.

Sasha’s on a road trip so she collapses into his bed and sleeps. When she wakes up she eats, showers, then sleeps again. She doesn't know how many days pass that way.

She’s sleeping on the couch instead of the bed for a change when the sound of voices stir her.

She sits up and covers a yawn. 

Sasha’s in a rumpled suit, his shoulders heavy with his trip. 

“You’re home,” she says. She doesn’t throw herself at him, because she’s not sure he can hold her up right now. She does twine her arms around his neck and pull him down so she can kiss him. 

He lifts her up onto the island counter so he doesn’t have to bend to kiss her. She wraps her legs around his waist and holds him close. She doesn’t need to. His hands thread through her hair as he kisses her, as glad to be reunited as she is.

They’re interrupted by someone clearing their throat. 

She looks to see five of Sasha’s teammates in his kitchen. 

She looks down. She’s in a Capitals shirt and her underwear. She’s sure everyone in this room has seen in her less. 

“Raincheck on dinner?” Williams asks.

Oshie and Backstrom are both smiling, not mocking, but like they’re happy their captain has someone to come home to. The other two, Niskanen and Orpik, they’re smirking. Sydney’s tempted to flip them off. 

“Dinner?” Sydney asks. “Are you going out?”

“Ordering in,” Sasha answers. “Are you hungry?”

“Eh.” She keeps her ankles hooked around him. “Pelmeni?”

“Mama fed you well.” He opens a nearby drawer and pulls out a well-loved takeout menu. He holds it out to his teammates. “Pick what you want.”

“I didn’t come here for Russian,” Oshie grumbles but he’s grinning as he says it and he’s the first to snatch the menu.

“I certainly did,” Sydney says.

Everyone stares at her, shocked, until Sasha laughs, loud and booming. 

~*~*~*~

The Capitals win the President’s Trophy. 

“There’s pressure on us to win,” Sasha tells Sydney.

She’s in DC for a few days before the playoffs begin. She’ll catch what games she can abroad. 

“There’s always pressure,” he adds. He cards his fingers through her hair. “We have Mr. Game 7 this season. It’ll be different.”

~*~*~*~

They go to seven games against the Toronto Maple Leafs. 

Justin Williams scores the game-winner. 

They fall in six to the Pittsburgh Penguins.

Sydney’s in Prague when it happens. Sasha doesn’t pick up his phone when she calls.

~*~*~*~

Evgeni Malkin lifts the Cup. Back-to-back wins for the Penguins.

Sasha still doesn’t answer when she calls. 

She boards a flight for Shanghai.

~*~*~*~

She flies to Moscow, and Tatiana opens the door when she knocks.

“Sydney, you are a surprise,” she says. She still pulls her in for a hug. “Sasha is sulking.”

“Upstairs?”

Tatiana nods then steps aside.

Sydney takes the stairs by two. When she opens his door, his room is trashed. there are empty vodka bottles strewn about every flat surface. His clothes reek. His eyes are red and bleary as he blinks at her. 

“Sydney,” he says. He struggles to sit up.

“Is your phone broken?”

He hangs his head. 

She sits on the edge of his bed. He shuffles until he can lay his head in her lap. “We lost. Again.” His voice sounds as if he’s been gargling gravel. “The ticking was too loud. I wanted it to stop.”

“It never stops.” She runs her hands through his hair. People like them who use their bodies to make their living, they’re always counting down towards the end. 

It’s a race against themselves and there’s no way to win. 

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” she says. “Then you can show me your city.”

~*~*~*~

The summer is a busy time for her.

It’s Sasha now who swings by her events when his schedule allows it. 

He sits front row at a runway walk where all the models wear hair pieces designed to look like bird’s nests. There are eggs in them they have to balance. Thankfully, there are no birds. 

He explores Amsterdam while she’s at a photoshoot and is waiting in her hotel room with champagne and strawberries when she’s freed. 

He fills the room with tulips when he has to leave for a week of training.

They meet up in Rome. 

He pretends to fight marble statues until she laughs so hard she’s afraid she’ll be sick. 

~*~*~*~

She stops in Moscow and has drinks with Sasha and his friends. 

Malkin is there. He looks happy, still flushed from his win. 

Anna is with him, and she’s beautiful in a simple black dress. 

“Where’s your louder half?” Malkin asks.

“Sasha stopped at the bar.”

Malkin smiles and pulls her into a hug. 

~*~*~*~

She wears a stunning gold dress to a red carpet event. It spills like liquid metal, clinging to her as it drips down. 

Sasha wears battered jeans, a faded t-shirt, and a leather jacket. Petrovich calls it Euro-grunge.

Everyone eats up the pictures of them. 

Opposites attract, claim every caption underneath their pictures.

_ A mess of contradictions _ , Sydney thinks.

~*~*~*~

The new season starts. 

There’s training camp and preseason. 

Sydney goes to the first game. She smiles when Sasha scores his first goal. 

By the time he scores his third, her mouth aches from smiling.

The next game, against the Canadiens, he puts up four goals. 

A new season, indeed.

~*~*~*~

She’s strapped into a dress she can barely breathe in then someone puts a Marie Antoinette wig on her head. Her face is powdered until she’s white as a ghost. She poses inside a gilded picture frame.

She meets up with Flower for a somewhat cliched photoshoot where each model is put inside a box. They’re modeling dolls. She breaks in every way they ask her to and even a few they don’t. It’s her signature look.

She wears a pink dress so light it’s almost white and runs through a hedge maze with a photographer chasing her. When she looks back at him, his camera catches her eyes, the irises glow with the light they use.

She dyes her hair to model jeans.

She swims with tropical fish to model diamonds.

She does a perfume campaign then a series of commercials for Revlon.

Her hair changes with every job she does.

Everyone gives her an article of clothing or piece of jewelry to take with her.

A gift.

She wears a clunky necklace to please one designer.

She wears clunkier heels to please another.

The hockey analysts claim Sasha has hit a wall when he only scores one goal for three games in a row.

He scores another hat trick to spite them in the next game.

Her heart swells with pride.

She dyes her hair again.

And again.

And again.

~*~*~*~

She doesn’t know what day it is when she stumbles through Sasha’s door. She doesn’t even know what time of day it is. 

She drops her bags by the door. Sasha’s there a moment later. She leans against him as she unzips her boots. 

“Welcome home,” she says. 

“I think that’s my line.”

She pulls her hair up and frowns when she sees that its cotton candy pink. “I need to stop at a salon while I’m here.”

“Okay.”

He holds her hand as he leads her upstairs. She loses her shirt in his doorway. She loses her jeans after a few kisses. She unhooks her bra. He drags her underwear down. He kneels so she can brace her hand on his shoulder as she lifts one foot then the other. 

He slides his hands up her thighs, calluses dragging against smooth skin. 

“Sasha.”

Her voice trembles, same as her knees. 

He holds her steady. 

~*~*~*~

She meets Nathan Walker. 

“You played in Sydney?” she asks. “I’ve walked the runway there a few times. Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week.”

“Sydney in Sydney?” Sasha asks. 

She pushes his face away. “Stop intimidating your rookie while I try to talk to him.”

“I think you scare him enough all on your own.”

“I dunno,” Oshie says, sliding over with a grin. “The Prime Minister called him after his first goal. Is Syd scarier than that?”

“I’m not scary,” Sydney protests.

Sasha pulls up his phone picture, still the sea creature one.

“Kenichi said I was  _ haunting _ . There’s a difference.”

“Didn’t you murder Romeo?” Carlson asks. He shrugs whenever everyone turns to him. “There was a magazine on the plane. It was the center picture.”

“I didn’t murder Romeo,” Sydney sighs.

Nathan hides from her the best he can for the rest of lunch. 

~*~*~*~

She dresses in her own clothes for a night out with the team; a short black dress that’s even shorter because of the fabric it takes to cover her ass. She wears comfortables shoes and a simple necklace. 

There will be pictures, because there are always pictures, but she doesn’t dress in anticipation of them. 

She dresses in anticipation of something else. 

She dabs perfume on her wrists but forgoes it behind her ears. Sasha says it’s too strong when he tries to kiss her there or nuzzle her neck.

She wears a single pearl on a thin chain. It’s the first thing Sasha notices. His large fingers are gentle as he lifts the chain away from her neck. “It’s nice.”

It’s a pink pearl. She likes it because the sheen makes it look like pink cream swirled over the sphere. 

It’s not an attention grabbing piece.

She’s honestly a little surprised that Sasha noticed it. 

~*~*~*~

They’re the first ones at the club.

“I’m setting a good example,” Sasha tells her.

“You’re full of shit.” She laughs and leans in to kiss him. “Buy me a drink?”

She doesn’t often ask him for things. She makes more money than she knows what to do with. The things she wants from him aren’t things either of them can buy. She knows he’s used to showering his girlfriends with gifts. She’s seen the evidence in the pictures Flower produces for her. 

She has people who give her jackets and jewelry and shoes.

She doesn’t need someone else who does.

Sasha’s the one to take off the jackets and jewelry and shoes until only Sydney is left behind. 

Sometimes, she thinks she should tell him how much he means to her.

She’s not sure she has the words for it.

She asks him to buy her a drink, because she knows he likes to give her things. He would give her anything she asks for. It’s a lot of power to give a person. 

He turns to leave and she catches his hand and reels him back in until she can kiss him. It’s meant to be a brief kiss, something to hold her over until he returns. But as her lips slide against his, she wants more. She pulls him even closer. One of his hands drops to her thigh, skin hot where it meets skin.

He groans at how short her dress is or maybe he feels the same heat she does. 

There will definitely be pictures if she doesn’t bring herself under control. 

She turns her head so his lips brush her ear. “Drink?” she asks again. 

He comes back with sparkling water for her and a glass of regular water for himself. His is mostly ice. 

“Thank you,” she says. 

She’s lived her life wary of men.  _ Be careful of what they ask for _ , her mom told her when she began to model.  _ Be careful of their eyes _ , Flower warned,  _ You can always tell what they want by where their eyes linger _ . 

Men have taken pictures of her.

They tell her to look like she’s broken.

They arrange her limbs until they like how she looks.

They put her in magazines and on billboards and have her walk through rooms full of other men. 

She lets them move her. She lets them look at her. 

Sasha is the first she allows to know her. 

Sometimes, she thinks she should tell him this too. 

~*~*~*~

Oshie is pink-cheeked after one beer. 

“Fucking lightweight,” Carlson says, delighted, and passes him another. 

Kuznetsov replays one of his goals and Burakovsky dodges his flailing arms.

Vrana imidates the bird celly and laughs as Kuznetsov growls at him in Russian. 

Sydney slips away to use the bathroom. There’s a new song when she returns to the table, something heavy with a beat that pounds with her pulse. When the beat picks up, so does her breathing as if she’s connected to the song.

She eyes Sasha, playing king in the middle of the booth. He has an arm thrown around Nicky’s shoulders and he waves his other hand as he talks. 

“You want to get back in?” Connolly asks.

He’s always polite to her. 

“No thank you,” she says.

Sasha looks up as if her voice is enough to capture his attention.

“I was hoping to dance.”

There’s some good-natured ribbing and catcalling as Sasha bullies his teammates out of the booth. Sydney knows what she looks like. She’s in a long-sleeved dress as if the fabric covering her arms makes up for how short the hem is. If her stride is too wide then the dress will ride up, indecent.

It makes her feel daring. 

She holds her hand out to Sasha.

“There’s a light out in the back corner,” Oshie says. He shrugs when everyone looks at him. “I scout these things.”

Sasha takes her hand and she leads him to the darkest part of the dance floor. 

They find an empty spot to claim as their own. She tips her head back against his shoulder and pushes her ass back into him. It’s a pose she can’t use while modeling. It looks too pin-up. But she isn’t on a set right now, and Sasha groans as she grinds back against him.

His hands drop to her thighs. They slide up and up and up until they finally meet the edge of her dress. Then they slide higher. 

She bites at the underside of his jaw.

~*~*~*~

They make it through four songs before he takes her home. 

~*~*~*~

Sasha drives her to the airport when it’s time for her to fly out again.

She’s dressed impeccably, sunglasses holding her hair back, because there will be paparazzi as soon as she lands.

He brushes his thumbs over her cheeks. “I’ll see you soon.”

They don’t say things like  _ goodbye  _ and  _ I’ll miss you _ . They both know these things to be true. Just as they know other things. Maybe those things should be said. 

Sydney’s never said _I miss_ _you_ over the phone because she’s afraid if she starts then she’ll never stop. She doesn’t say _I’m sorry_ when their schedules don’t line up, because if she did then she’d be apologizing all the time. 

She rubs her thumb over the beard he’s growing.  _ I love you _ , she thinks.  _ IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou. _

She brushes a kiss over his lips. 

She steps back before she kisses him again. 

She takes her two bags and heads toward security.

She only looks behind her once. Sasha’s swarmed by kids in Capitals shirts. She smiles and thinks it one last time.

_ I love you _ .

He looks up as if she’d spoken out loud.

~*~*~*~

Her hair is very, very red when she’s up on the box for the Coyotes game. 

“Rock the Red?” Lauren Oshie asks with a smile. 

“I was Ariel,” Sydney answers.

Lyla perks up. “Like the princess?”

It was an “edgy” photoshoot. She was Ariel stumbling on the beach, walking for the first time. She turned her knees in, bent them until her lower half looked broken.

It had been painful.

Sand was everywhere.

She crouches down so she’s closer to Lyla’s eye-level. “Just like the princess. They braided seaweed into my hair.”

Lyla wrinkles her nose then claps her hands together, delighted. 

The hair is sticking around for a bit. Someone else wants to do an underwater shoot while her hair is this color. That will probably be Ariel-inspired too.

“Do you want to see a picture?” 

Sydney pulls one up. Lyla’s smile disappears. She frowns as she taps the screen.

“Are you hurt?”

“I’m learning how to walk.”

Lyla nods. “Leni’s walking. She falls a lot.”

“Let Sydney watch the game, sweetie,” Lauren says. 

~*~*~*~

“We won!” Sasha exclaims, sweeping Sydney off her feet.

“You beat up a bunch of kids.” Sydney laughs as he swings her around. “Is anyone on that team  _ not  _ a 90s kid?”

Sasha puffs up his chest. “We’re the Big Bad Capitals.”

“Leave that to the Bruins,” she says. She pokes his chest and grins as he deflates. “It was a good game. You didn’t let the kids outskate you.”

“Three-game winning streak,” he says. 

He’s lighter this season than last. He’s always smiled easily, but the smiles are more genuine, reaching his eyes. 

Everyone’s attention is sucked up by the Penguins and their quest for the 3-peat, with the Maple Leafs and their stacked offense, with the Oilers and if there’s a ceiling for players like McDavid. The Capitals are finally allowed to  _ play _ , no microscope pinning them down. 

He sets her back on her feet. 

“Is the team celebrating?” she asks. 

He shakes his head. “Game tomorrow. I’m yours for the whole night.”

“We’ll sleep for most of it,” she says. “You have a back-to-back, and I have an early flight.”

“I have something for you.”

He brings her upstairs and rummages through his sock drawer until he pulls out a long, thin box. She braces herself for a thick metal chain or a diamond studded choker. 

Instead, it’s a simple gold chain with an even simpler ruby pendant. The pendant is about the size of her thumbnail. It’s understated, more her style than his. 

Tears gather in her eyes. 

His hands cover hers so she doesn’t drop the box. 

“I--” she’s choked up. A few tears slip from her eyes. “I’m not upset.”

“I know.”

“Sasha, I--”

“I know,” he says again. “Me too.”

She carefully sets the box on top of her dresser.

She kisses him far less carefully. 

He picks her up then drops her on his bed. He wipes the tears from her cheeks. 

“That’s not your style,” she says, because there are so many things she doesn’t say, but she needs to say this. “It’s mine.”

He cradles her face in his hands. “I know.”

~*~*~*~

She wears the necklace on the plane. 

She wears it on a lot of planes.

“Huh,” Flower says when she sees it. She knows Sydney doesn’t like to buy herself things. “That’s not really his style.”

Sydney can’t help her laugh. “I know.”

Something must show in her face, because Flower whistles. “Syd, doll, you have it  _ bad _ . I feel like I need to threaten him again.”

“Maybe we can have a nice dinner,” Sydney suggests. “I want you to like him.”

“He scored a hat trick on Price and forced Julien to pull him.”

“He makes me happy.”

“Well.” Flower loses the aggressive set to her shoulders. “I guess I’ll have to try then.”

~*~*~*~

She and Flower have a hotel room with a view of the ocean. Someone leaves a bottle of champagne and fresh strawberries for them.

“Does your hockey hunk know you’re sharing the honeymoon suite with me?” Flower asks.

Sydney eats a few strawberries but leaves the champagne alone. “This isn’t the honeymoon suite.” Still, it has a nice view and a big bed. They stayed in terrible places when they started out. “Do you ever think about going on vacation?”

She thinks the beach might be fun if she weren’t always there in the off-season and working. It would definitely be fun with Sasha. He’d probably throw her in the ocean. 

A smile tugs at her lips.

“A vacation?” Flower echoes. “Are you sick?”

Sydney laughs and bats Flower’s hands away as she tries to feel her forehead.

~*~*~*~

The next day they’re on  _ horses _ .

Well, right now they’re watching the handler try to calm the horses down so they can get up on them and model dresses that aren’t practical for the beach or horseback riding.

“Yes,” Flower says as the black mare rears, showing off dangerous hooves. “In answer to last night’s question, definitely yes.”

Sydney laughs.

~*~*~*~

She returns to DC with Flower in tow.

Flower hands Sasha a bottle of the shittiest vodka she could buy at the store. “Sydney told me to try. This is me trying.”

“That is the opposite of trying,” Sydney sighs. 

~*~*~*~

Flower prefers heavy eye make-up. She goes all out for their night out with the team. Mascara that makes her lashes long and dark. Smoky eyeshadow to draw people’s gazes to her. She wears a tight top and no bra. Her leather skirt is short, but her thigh-high boots mean she doesn’t show much skin. 

She tosses her long hair over her shoulder and assesses Sydney’s outfit.

The first thing she notices is the necklace.

“I like it,” Sydney says, defensive. 

“I know you do.” Flower draws her in and kisses her forehead. “Why do you look so good tonight? You already have your hunk.”

“Like anyone can compete with you when you’re on the prowl.”

They finish getting ready then go downstairs. Flower pours them each a glass of champagne. 

“ _ This  _ isn’t bottom shelf,” Sydney says.

“Only the best for us.”

Sydney’s two glasses in when Sasha returns home from the game. His face is still flushed from playing. His hair is a mess from his shower. When he smiles at her, she’s helpless to do anything but smile back.

“You should pick his outfit,” Flower says. “I won’t be seen with him if he dresses himself.”

Sydney giggles, too much champagne in her to do anything else. “Be nice.”

Flower nudges Sydney’s hip. Quiet, so only Sydney can hear she says, “Only the best.”

Sydney kisses Flower’s cheek before she glides over to where Sasha’s waiting. “Want help getting dressed?”

Flower turns on some music. “Be as loud as you like,” she tells them.

Sydney giggles again and tugs Sasha towards the stairs. 

It barely takes her any time to strip him out of his clothes.

It takes longer to help him find new ones.

~*~*~*~

Sydney’s ponytail is crooked when she shows up to the club with Sasha on one arm and Flower on the other. Her make-up is smudged. Her cheeks are flushed pink, mostly from champagne. She had another glass before they came over.

She hasn’t eaten enough today to be anything but halfway to drunk.

She leans against Sasha shoulder. It means Flower’s too far away so she pulls her closer. 

“Cherie,” Flower says. “You are a lightweight.”

“And you’re too tall.”

Flower grins. She presses a kiss to the top of Sydney’s head, because she’s also a jerk. 

“You’re late,” Wilson says when they show up. His mouth drops when he sees Flower. “Wow.”

“ _ Fashionably  _ late,” Flower corrects. She laughs at her own joke.

She pokes Sydney until she giggles.

“Come dance with me,” Flower says. She pulls Sydney away from Sasha. 

“There’s a light out in the back corner,” Sydney says. “Oshie found it.”

Flower laughs as she leads Sydney away from the table. “You can hide, you have someone to go home to tonight. I need people to see me.”

They dance together and it’s like they’re eighteen again and at their first industry party. They’re both drunk and their hands wander as they move to the music. With Flower at her back, Sydney feels safe. Protected. 

They dance until Sydney’s quads ache. The swing by the bar for waters. Flower’s approached by someone at the bar. Flower hands Sydney her drink which is Sydney’s cue to let them have their fun.

She returns to the Capitals booth with two drinks and no Flower. 

Vrana and Connolly slide out of the booth so she can sit next to Sasha. She sits more on him than next to him. 

“Did you have fun?” he asks.

“Flower’s my best friend. She helped me with my French when I first went to Paris.” Words spill out of Sydney’s mouth before she can catch them. “She broke into high fashion before me. She’s all long limbs and grace. I’m not sure she’s ever done a swimsuit shoot.”

“You just did one,” Oshie says. “Lauren was flipping through a magazine at the store and saw you.”

Sydney wrinkles her nose. “The denim one?”

“You wore a denim bikini?” Wilson asks. “That’s dedication to being Canadian.”

“It was Petrovich’s idea.” Sydney pats Sasha’s knee. “Worth it, though.”

“You did it for me?” he asks.

“People trade favors all the time. He brought me to my first Capitals game.” 

And now she’s here. She pats Sasha’s knee again. She doesn’t move her hand this time, leaving her fingers curled around his knee. 

~*~*~*~

She misses the Capitals holiday party this season. She’s doing a photoshoot on the deck of an old-fashioned ship. It’s steampunk which means a tight corset and a tiny hat and brass buttons. 

She’s tied so tightly into her dress she can barely move. There are only a few shapes she can give which means she needs to show a spectrum of facial expressions.

The photographer doesn’t like her crooked smile so she doesn’t smile.

At her next photoshoot, she twists and turns and tilts her hips so her ass isn’t quite as prominent.

At the next one, she hides her frustration by carefully layering her make-up.

She knows how to contort herself to hide the parts of her body people doesn’t like. She knows models aren’t perfect. They can become perfection through styling and lighting and photoshop.

So she captures her best side in profile and hides parts of her body and accentuates others. 

She’s glad to return home. 

She drops herself in Sasha’s lap and doesn’t have to worry about the color of her hair or the shape of her eyes or how to tuck her bottom lip so it doesn’t look quite as large. 

He’s happy to have  _ her _ , however she looks. 

“I’m home,” she says instead of  _ I’ve missed you _ .

He smiles, face lighting up, the same way he does every time she calls his house home. When he smiles she can see his missing teeth. His beard is scruffy, because he doesn’t groom it when she isn’t here. There’s more gray in it than the last time she saw him. 

She aches for him even though he’s solid beneath her. 

She curls her fingers around his shoulders, desperation building in her chest. 

“Yeah?” he asks. His hands sweep up and down her back. 

It’s probably meant to be soothing. She arches into the touch, pressing back into the touch. 

“Yeah,” she answers. 

“Here?”

She nods. She doesn’t want to wait any longer than she has to. 

He pulls her sweater over her head. She unhooks her bra then tilts his chin up when he looks like he’ll be distracted. 

She tugs his t-shirt off. She has to climb off his lap so they can get their pants off. It’s easier for him, because he’s in sweatpants. It takes her a little more time, but he reaches into the end table drawer for lube and a condom. 

She leaves her clothes in a pile on the floor. 

Sasha’s already rolled the condom on and slicked himself up. She climbs back into his lap and knocks his hands away when they reach for her. 

“Syd,” he says when he realizes what she wants to do.

His hand is slippery on her hip. He doesn’t try to pull her closer or push her way. He touches her for the sake of touching. 

“I want to,” she says. 

He nods.

She reaches between them to hold his cock steady. She lines herself up, but her body resists the intrusion. It’s been too long since she’s seen him. Too long since she had the time or the energy to do this to herself. 

She wills her body to relax.

She wants him in her. 

She wants to be as close to him as she possibly can.

Her body finally opens to him. Sasha’s hands squeeze her sides as she takes the tip of him into her body. 

She wants more. 

She feels every centimeter as she sinks down on his cock. It feels too big, her body struggling to accommodate. But she wants to feel it. She wants to feel it tonight and tomorrow morning. She wants to carry a reminder of him with her for as long as she can.

When she finally takes all of him inside her, they’re both breathing heavy.

She rests her forehead against his. 

She kisses him, sharp and desperate, because she still isn’t close enough. 

In two days, she’ll be on an airplane again.

She can’t stay.

She needs to work.

The tick, tock of her clock has been loud lately.

She won’t pass up jobs when soon she won’t be offered them. 

But she wants Sasha too.

She wants everything. 

~*~*~*~

She wakes up sore the next morning. 

There are faint red lines still running down Sasha’s back. She traces them with her fingers then with her lips. He stirs, mumbles something at her in Russian.

She pats his hip and slides out of bed to make breakfast. 

~*~*~*~

She’s been with Sasha for more than a year. 

People don’t understand why they’re together.

Sometimes  _ she  _ doesn’t understand.

She doesn’t need him. She’s in the upper tier of her profession. She has more money than she knows what to do with. She has a few very close friends. 

She doesn’t need him.

But she does want him.

There are very few things she allows herself to want. 

~*~*~*~

The Caps win some games.

They lose some too.

Sydney works photoshoots and runways and ad campaigns.

She’s away more than she’s home. 

Sasha isn’t always there when she finds her way back to DC.Sleeping in his bed without him is better than sleeping in a hotel room.

Sleeping with him is the best. 

~*~*~*~

The Capitals comfortably make it into the playoffs. 

They play Columbus in the first round.

It’s a heavy hitting style of hockey.

Sydney catches bits of it between jobs.

She calls when they win the series. 

Sasha tells her it feels like fate when they meet the Penguins in the second round.

The series goes to seven games.

Justin Williams isn’t with them anymore, but TJ Oshie scores the OT series-winning goal.

Sasha calls her, drunk and jubilant. She stares out her hotel window at a city she doesn’t remember the name of.

They beat the Leafs in a series that sees a record-setting number of goals. 

Sydney returns home for the final series against Edmonton. She stays with Sasha’s parents, because she doesn’t want to be a distraction.

The series is billed as Ovechkin against McDavid. 

McDavid looks like a kid as he hunches in his oversized Oilers hoodie. He talks up his team, spreads the burden of the series to each of them. He’s careful not to give too much weight to any one person. 

They praise his leadership.

Sasha shoulders the whole burden for his team. 

He’s called selfish. 

“It’s unfair,” Sydney says.

Tatiana clucks her tongue. “You know life is not fair.”

~*~*~*~

The Capitals win.

Sydney’s in a box in Edmonton when time runs out.

It’s a 3-1 win.

The camera zooms in on Sasha and the sheer elation on his face as he tosses his gloves and stick aside. He doesn’t need them anymore.

~*~*~*~

There’s a lot of drinking. A lot of shouting. Some tears. More drinking.

~*~*~*~*~

After the hangovers and the parade and someone cleaning Sasha’s house so it’s habitable again, they sit on his patio in one of his recliners.

He’s stretched out, shirtless because it’s summer and the sun is warm. She sits between his legs and leans back against him. 

“We won,” he says. He sounds as incredulous, as amazed, as relieved as every other time he’s said it.

“You did.”

He plays with the strings of her bikini.

She doesn’t mind bathing suits when it’s the right season for them.

“I can still hear it ticking.”

“It won’t stop until you do.” She twists to look at him. One side of her bathing suit comes untied. This very moment, she’s the youngest she’ll ever be. And again in this one. Their clocks don’t tick in tandem, but they both tick. 

One day, she won’t be a model anymore.

One day, he won’t be a professional hockey player.

For now, she works fueled by the knowledge that one day it will be gone.

And he plays with passion and desperation of someone who knows he’ll lose it one day. 

When she loses modeling, she wants to still have him. She  _ can  _ still have him. Her life doesn’t end when her career does.

The ticking doesn’t stop, but it sounds like a clock again instead of a bomb.


End file.
